welcome to storybrooke
by ohwhatagloomyshow
Summary: Mr. Gold awoke, as he always did, at precisely 8:15 AM.


The guards had long since fled, vanishing to surround the royal chambers in their last minutes.

Rumpelstiltskin couldn't stop laughing.

It was always this way when a vision came true—the insurmountable joy that surged through his body, the ragged breaths and furious pounding of his heart.

The laughter evolved as he felt the screams of Snow White, felt in his own body the creation and release of the Savior. The laughter softened, the lips formed a syllable, whispered and gasped and shouted the name like a prayer, like a promise, like a deal.

"_Bae!"_

The name was torn from his core, rippled through the cavern.

"_Baelfire!"_

He was laughing and he was screaming and he was pressing against the rough dirt wall, hoping to force his way through the rock and meet the curse half-way in his desire for release.

"Baebaebaebaebae," he couldn't stop, was addicted to the sound and the relief that coursed through his body, relief that raised goose pimples across the pieces of flesh that remained on his form.

He spotted the purple smoke in the corner, slipping easily through the wall with a peculiar supple grace. He ran to it, held it in his scaly hands, swirled it between his fingertips.

The rest was quick to follow, swallowing him in cold opaque swirls. He spun, spun, spun, enveloping himself in his salvation.

It was ice cold and it was burning. It tore him apart. The laughing chant dissolved into a pure scream of agony—he was falling, he was tearing away. He ran to the bars, gripped to them desperately with spindly limbs, suddenly unsure of all he knew, unsure of the prophesy, unsure of the name written on stolen parchment. The smoke like daggers against his face, the prison becoming hazy before his eyes. Only one thing was certain anymore.

"_BAE!_"

Mr. Gold awoke, as he always did, at precisely 8:15 AM.

The old alarm was piercing; he shut it off with one well-manicured hand before reaching up to rub his eyes. The pain in his foot, the result of a years old car accident, was nearly unbearable, but the Aspirin was close by, a cup of warm water beside it. As he sat up, putting the bitter tablets on his tongue, he wondered when exactly he had become so old.

The water heater took too long to warm up his shower; the house creaked as he walked back down the hall, giving voice to its own age. When he hobbled down the stairs, dressed as always in a black suit—purple tie this time—the first thing he saw was the broken cup on its pedestal, right in front of the wide parlor window.

The glance shot him through with feelings of guilt and betrayal that he knew were connected intimately with a feeling of love. He knew someone must have loved him once—that the artifact was a charm, a symbol of a once selfless affection. But he couldn't remember when, or who—just dark hair and a pale face, and a name that was musical, or maybe a name like the sound of something breaking, or a sound like a soft sigh. But she was dead and had left him—maybe that was in reverse.

The hot tea was welcome and sad against his already tired throat. He avoided looking at the cup again when he left for the day.

The store was in the opposite direction of the bay, but still the smell of saltwater filled him with feelings of incompetence and anger. He had always hated the sea; there was no need or desire to question why. The only things that relieved the feelings were the momentary looks of fear of the people he passed, and the final arrival at his destination. The pawnshop was his refuge: he felt younger, safer within its walls. Almost happy.

The mayor stopped by in the afternoon, his only customer: her very presence filled him with a mixture of pride and frustration and he was unsure what caused the emotions. She was as polite as ever, extending a private invitation to drinks later in the evening. He accepted.

He closed up shop at 5:30; half-way to the mayor's mansion he felt his bones grow heavy, tiredness seeping into his old joints. She welcomed him into her cold, pristine living room and offered brandy and apple tarts. There was the feeling of camaraderie. He left at 11.

The house was chilly when he unlocked the door. Quickly he undressed, readied for bed. The sheets were uninviting and reminded him of the woman whose name was like destruction. He slept.

Mr. Gold awoke, as he always did, at precisely 8:15 AM.

Mr. Gold awoke, as he always did, at precisely 8:15 AM.

Mr. Gold awoke, as he always did, at precisely 8:15 AM.

He found himself screaming a foreign name, his pajamas sticking to him with sweat as he ripped awake. He breathed heavily, listening as the name echoed throughout the empty house.

_Bae._

His ankle bothered him but he ignored it, grabbing his cane to make his way downstairs. The piercing sound of the kettle was comforting in the empty darkness of the kitchen.

He sipped his tea too soon, burning his mouth. He didn't care much, and continued to drink. He cried for no reason at his kitchen table.

The word had been on the tip of his tongue for months, just at the edge of his mind, too far away and too slippery to truly hold. It felt like _ruin_, with a syllable that tasted like _damnation._

It came to him suddenly, unpredictably, on a regular Sunday walk. The memory—was it a memory?—shoved him back against the siding of the abandoned library, made him gasp for air.

A word murmured in a forest by a girl without eyes.

_Undoing._

It left him trembling.


End file.
